Doctor Who_ Enlightenment - Barbara Clegg [9]
‘I hope it’s not going to be too rough,’ she muttered.
‘I’m not a very good sailor.’
Striker and his officers appeared oblivious of the movement of the ship. They sat, staring blankly ahead, eating and drinking in silence, their faces as impassive as they had been since the beginning of the meal. The shrill squealing of the bosun’s pipe sounded from somewhere, and Tegan felt her stomach beginning to heave up and down with the boat.
‘Brave heart, Tegan!’ came the Doctor’s encouraging whisper across the table, but all she could manage was a watery smile.
‘It’s not my heart I’m worried about,’ she whispered back.
The door was flung open and a voice she recognised spoke.
‘Breaking out the rum ration, sir.’
It was her friend of the scanner screen who stood there, his face elated and energy vibrating in his movements. The effect of his arrival on Striker and the other two officers was electric, as though they had come to life.
‘Good,’ Striker’s tone was incisive, his introductions perfunctory. ‘My First Mate, Mr Marriner, – I believe you’ve met.’ Marriner’s salute and short-lived smile in her direction showed that even he now had other things on his mind.
‘Everything in order?’ the Captain was asking him. ‘Are the crew ready?’
‘Being prepared,’ came the enigmatic reply. The ship shuddered violently. Striker and the two officers sprang to their feet, leaving the Doctor and Tegan sitting in bewilderment.
‘I must apologise,’ broke in Striker, courteous as always,
‘for this rather abrupt end to dinner.’
As the Doctor and Tegan pushed back their chairs to get up, the ship lurched more violently still. There was a crash from the table as several more glasses fell, and they were both thrown back into their seats.
‘Look to the lady, Mr Marriner,’ was the Captain’s brisk command, and he hurried from the room, his officers behind him.
Marriner was clearly delighted to offer Tegan his arm, but she pulled back, demanding to know where they were going. ‘To the wheel-house,’ he answered, and before she could raise another objection she was whisked through the doorway. By the time the Doctor had struggled up from his chair there was no sign of her. There was no sign of her in the companionway, either, and he looked from left to right, trying to decide which way to go.
Turlough was equally lost. At the sound of the bosun’s pipe everyone in the fo’c’s’le had appeared to go berserk.
There was a mad rush of men for the doorway, and he was jostled from side to side. Grasping Collier’s arm as he passed he asked what was going on. ‘Grog ration,’ was the brief explanation and then he was alone in the empty fo’c’s’le, looking at the half-darned sock, the cards lying higgledy-piggledy on the floor, and the deserted banjo. A second later Jackson was back.
‘Come on, lad,’ he shouted, shoving Turlough ahead of him. It was not until they were half way along the passageway that Turlough discovered to his horror that they were about to go up aloft, and by then it was too late to turn back.
The Doctor was still looking for the wheel-house when he heard the sound of running feet. He flattened himself against the bulkhead as several sailors dashed past him one after the other and shinned up the companion-ladder to the deck above. Two more arrived at the double, and as the first bent to retie a shoelace he saw that it was Turlough.
The man behind overtook him and disappeared up the ladder, with a shout of ‘Come on, lad.’ If Turlough heard, he certainly made no move, other than to straighten up with a satisfied expression. There was a murmur ‘Not going with them?’ in his ear, which made him jump, and when he spun round he saw the Doctor smiling at him with complete understanding.
‘Going aloft? The rigging’s no place for a coward like me!’ Turlough grinned back. It was rather a relief that the Doctor knew him so well, at least he did not have to pretend. And it was not too difficult to confess that he had failed to find anything out about the race, except for the